by Bruce Duffy
It was a beautiful, unpremeditated gesture, a gesture of submission and respect, like a priest kissing the altar stone — a gesture beautiful even for the fact that Moore’s fanny was in the air as he bent down, panting for breath. The laughter abruptly stopped and anxious looks flew round the room. Was he all right? McTaggart, shuffling along the wall, was starting to go to Moore when the novice abruptly turned, smiling with such ripe, rubicund fullness that it was clear to all in the room that there was nothing more to say; and then, without another word, he shyly sat down.
That night Russell wrote Alys, saying that if Moore did not die or go mad he would be a great genius — perhaps the greatest genius the world had ever known. Not only did Russell believe this, but he believed it without reservation, never thinking what it implied about himself, much less where he might be ranked relative to Moore one day. They were still that young. Two unblemished hills, and not yet a thought about which was the higher.
The Suitor
BUT IF IT SEEMED to Russell and others that Moore’s genius emanated from an innocence that provided him a moral fulcrum from which to ply his analytical brilliance; if indeed Moore’s innocence was what was best and most original in him, it did not always seem so to Moore himself, who feared he might after all be only a silly. He put no garnishings on it. He was not, as Lytton avowed, a divine silly — no latter-day Socrates — but just your ordinary, naive, vacillating ninny. And not just a ninny, either. As things looked now, he was a plain fool who was about to embarrass himself by proposing to a young woman nearly twenty years his junior.
Leaving Hall from dinner that night, Moore was still smarting over Russell’s maneuverings and general overbearingness. Moore wasn’t bothered about Wittgenstein; it was Russell’s whole manner — his overweening confidence — that needled him. Worse, Russell’s attitude only showed Moore his own native wooliness, his endless shilly-shallying. And in a way, Moore envied Russell. Russell wasn’t burdened with this useless Hamletizing. He never shrank from going after what he wanted, nor from using whatever casuistry was necessary to justify his actions. But even this, Moore saw, was just another evasion. For him it was not, after all, a matter of justifying his actions but of for once going after what he wanted, namely, Miss Dorothy Ely.
The problem was, Moore wasn’t entirely sure, or couldn’t entirely justify to himself, that he knew what he wanted. It was abominably complicated. As he had shown in his Principia, it was not a matter of shalts and shalt nots. There were no logical proofs by which one could arrive at the Good. A moral law, Moore had found, had the guise not of a law but of a prediction of what will generally produce the greatest sum of good. That was all. Moore admitted that it was at first a little dispiriting to realize that ethics was really a matter of brokering, in a given instance, something better than worse, and likely rather worse than good. Not, it’s true, that one did not always keep the Good shining over one’s shoulder like the sun. But still, thought Moore, dogging his way home now from High Table — why did it fall on him to be the broker in this case? Why was it that the man was saddled with all the moral burden of proposing? Think of the ramifications! Did he, George Moore, wish to take Miss Dorothy Ely freely and simply and lovingly, or was he merely trying to satisfy himself that some woman would have him? That is, did he want Dorothy as a love, purely and simply, or did he rather want her as an end, a product of his affections made flesh, so to speak, by virtue of some flimsy word? And besides, wasn’t he merely indulging a vanity, seeking to satisfy some agreeable image or ideal of himself as a husband ensconced in a domicile with wife, children, chattels? Children!
Down the lane now, under the yellow streetlamps, men far younger than Moore — vigorous young men Miss Ely’s age — were walking along briskly in the cold air. Moore looked at them striding hungrily into their own steaming breath, eating and inhaling life like fire, not forever analyzing it like a gas. Yet straightaway Moore reverted to the philosopher, asking himself again what it properly meant, to love? In his Principia, he had written of the Ideal as consisting of certain timeless mental states in which one contemplated truth, beauty, good works, love: sister states of the all-encompassing Good. But man and woman love — this he had skirted almost entirely, and no wonder. What had he known then, in 1903, of love, much less of loving a real flesh and blood woman? Why, even now I hardly know a thing! he thought, inwardly giving himself another good kick. You were describing Platonic doves and halos, you oaf, not people of flesh! Why, even that poor thwarted monk Abelard knew more — vastly more! At least Abelard knew he loved!
All the way back to his rooms Moore kicked himself. And once there he dawdled. Looking at himself in the mirror, he thought his suit looked rumpled and shabby, old. He had a good dark suit for special occasions, but this was so predictable — Miss Ely would see him coming a mile off, all ready with her rejection. Christ, where was Smyth, his gyp? Gone for the night and his shoes unshined, and no clean white shirt, either. And even after Moore wiped his shoes with a rag, and wet and combed his hair — even after he reluctantly put on his best suit and brushed his teeth, he still felt a fool, and at that a rather dastardly one for wanting to palm himself off on a former student foolish enough to have trusted him.
Moore had met Miss Ely the year before, when she took his course in moral logic. Miss Ely did well in the course — better than many of his men in fact — but he did not remember thinking much about her until several months later, when he saw her coming out of a seamstress shop on Bridge Street. She looked different outside the classroom, in the daylight. Had she cut her hair? They stopped and spoke, but of course it was the rather dismally formal don-to-undergraduate sort of chat. Moore felt himself straining to seem natural, to appear aboveboard and donlike, rather than a hungry man sniffing. Nevertheless, he noticed her handsome self-sufficiency and her dark straight hair, which she tied up around her close and slender ears with a thin strand of black ribbon. Miss Ely had large, dark eyes, deeply set, and Moore was amazed, from the relative vantage of age, how youthfully clear her features were, as if she were part of the foreground while he was modestly receding. He remembered thinking that she had the most lovely hairless white hands, plump at the palm and slender at the fingers, with fine white slivers of nails. She struck him, correctly as it turned out, as a father’s girl, independent and quiet, shy. Why hadn’t he asked her out then? He had a sense of her routine. Awkward, stalking, stammering a hasty greeting as he flew by her, Moore kicked himself for the next two weeks for his shyness. Finally, though, after two days of internal arguments and counterarguments, he almost pushed himself in her path, suggesting, sucking his tongue, that they might go walking — if she didn’t mind, of course. Oh! Any day, really, would be fine …
Tomorrow? she asked.
Well, he thought afterward, she must be at least somewhat interested to suggest the next day, out for a walk in the Backs. But then Moore’s mind sued for the counterargument, that she was just curious or simply felt sorry for him, an aging bachelor down on his luck.
He was terribly nervous that day as they crossed King’s Bridge, pausing to gaze at the dark hummocks the arches cast over the river, beneath their own shining reflections. It was a fine June afternoon, not long after a shower, and the willows, pale and flossy with rainlight, were stretched down, dripping faint circles into the tea-dark water. Miss Ely tended to be quiet when she was nervous, but Moore, he was a talker. Couldn’t shut up. He sounded as if this were a refresher course in philosophy rather than your basic courting business. And when Moore found out that she was but twenty, his mouth popped open.
Oh! Moore stuffed his guilty hands in his pockets. I didn’t know.
Didn’t know what? asked Miss Ely.
That you were so young. Moore was in the soup then. Quickly backtracking, he hedged. Or rather, not because you are so young — I do not want to say that — but rather, well, because —
But here he stopped again, not wanting to scotch his chances by suggesting he was too old f
or her. And despite her years, Miss Ely in this instance was far more knowing and worldly than he. Frankly, she said, I am surprised you would even concern yourself with age, Mr. Moore. If, as you suggest in your Principia, affection is basically a mental state, then what does it matter the relative ages of the two minds concerned?
Oh! Well, that is true, said Moore, stuffing his hands more deeply in his pockets.
But still he lollygagged. He took her home that day, and almost accidentally mumbled something about their doing it again — em, going for a walk or something. Fortunately for them both, Miss Ely recognized his extremity and suggested — rather boldly, it seemed to him — that they go to the fair the next week.
But their second outing was even harder for him. Walking with her through the reeking straw, looking at the prize cattle and horses, Moore wondered what he ought to do. He liked her awfully much, but he was such a duffer. Why, he couldn’t even win a penny dish, while she won three. They ate ices, and then they came to a black tent painted with yellow zodiacal signs, where Miss Ely had her palm read. She was smiling when she emerged. What did she say? he asked, suddenly anxious, as if these divinations might concern him. Just never you mind, she said, rather saucily. It wouldn’t come true if I told you, now would it, Mr. Moore?
He didn’t know why that chastened him. He was in the most awful muddle. And didn’t she have the most comely buttocks, switching under her long skirt as he caught up to her after losing his hat. Should he kiss her? Would that be too forward — or was it not forward enough? God, he didn’t know. He didn’t know what the older set did, let alone this younger set. The impossible truth was, he’d never kissed a girl before — not in earnest, anyhow.
Bubbles in his stomach. The moment of truth at her door. Grasped her hand was all, only her hand! You ass! Stupid, silly ass! Storming down the lane, kicking himself.
Moore next saw Miss Ely a week after the fair, this time for a picnic on the Cam. This was the day of truth, he told himself, and he manfully took charge of the situation, babbling on about his days as a cox as he scooped muddy rainwater from the bottom of the punt.
There now, he coached as he helped her in. Step to the center. Easy now …
Miss Ely was as competent as he in handling a boat, but she was wise enough to let him play cox that day. And he caught the most awful guilty eyeful when she boarded — a flash of black stocking and petticoat as she was scissoring her sturdy legs around, getting herself situated. Miss Ely must have been rather nervous herself, because as he pushed off, he noticed little spots of sweat, like raindrops, bleeding through the back of her white blouse. Having manfully rolled up his sleeves, he was poling from the back, his straw skimmer cocked like a cymbal, and curls of his still golden hair darkly dripping sweat over his brow. I feel like a gondolier, he said, and for effect began faintly singing Ave Maria. Such a beautiful voice, Miss Ely said. You’ll have to sing for me sometime. I play the piano.
He felt so happy then, so hopeful. Like a lily, the sun lay on the water, and as Miss Ely peered down into the greeny-brown depths, he saw the reflections dancing on her throat, then on her face as she turned, shading her eyes, and smiled at him. And a nice swell of bosom, too — umm, rather fuller than he thought, actually. Why did he think even then that he loved her? He hardly knew her. And what was he to do now? First he was out of songs. Then out of jokes, desperately looking for a place to put in and do it finally — kiss her. Yes, and then what? And what if she refused?
Stowing the pole, he sat and began paddling, his heart pounding as he ominously thought, At this next willow…
With one good swirling stroke, he aimed the punt for the branches. He felt the leaves brush his face as he stealthily removed his skimmer. In the air, globes of midges fluttered. In the water, he saw water striders swarming. It’s like a tent! she cried, and then she was all sun dappled, the light falling like tiddlywinks through her hair as, crouching, he lumbered forward, ostensibly to secure the rocking boat. Go on, prodded some animus within him, and he felt an electric shock as she turned toward him, eyeing him so openly. What was she doing, he wondered, to stare at him so frankly and innocently? Go on, urged the voice, and he rested his sweaty palm atop hers on the gunwale, then squeezed it. She did not draw away, and the boat rocked then as he kissed her — awkwardly at first, then more passionately, until at last he was on his knees to get better purchase, squeezing her tighter with each sally. Then she was all over with light, and afterward, as he sat back on the rocking seat, he saw he had wet the knees of his trousers. Look at me, he said, leaning forward for a second helping, then another, until she said, Mr. Moore, I think we ought to go ashore now. I’m afraid you’ll capsize us.
It was only later in their courtship that Miss Ely told Moore that she had taken Russell’s course concurrently with his. Moore tried to seem pleased that she would avail herself to the ideas of a respected colleague, but Miss Ely saw through him. And she rather liked his jealousy, saying, I know it was awful of me. First I would ask Mr. Russell a question in his class and record his answer, and then I would ask you the same question and write your answer beside it.
What? asked Moore, his face like a teakettle. You did what?
I meant no harm by it, said Miss Ely, turning a shade provocative. Mr. Russell’s answers were more succinct. But I felt yours were more thorough and — I don’t know — more true.
Well! he blustered. Certainly I wasn’t asking you to judge.
But Mr. Moore, she soothed. I didn’t know you then. And you came off exceedingly well in the comparison.
But I wasn’t asking to be compared! he thundered. Comparisons advance nothing. Russell and I understand and respect one another. That’s what’s important.
Never in his life had Moore been so jealous — until Miss Ely, there had been no reason. Yet here he was, as in a shilling romance, with fantasies of Russell trying to steal Miss Ely away and him, the Wronged Suitor, shouting, Scoundrel! Have you concealed from the lady in question the fact that you are married!
Moore even harbored fears that Russell might steal Miss Ely away just to spite him. In his anxiety, Moore turned fatalistic. If he was going to lose her to Russell, he thought, it might as well happen sooner rather than later. With this weighing on him, he even pointedly told Russell about Miss Ely. But far from being jealous, Russell, just then feeling the first flush of love for Ottoline, seemed delighted for him.
It did no good. Still Moore suffered. Even near forty, the author of Principia Ethica couldn’t bypass that feeling of first love. Guarded, self-absorbed and easily embarrassed, Moore was as sensitive as a youth, and as moony.
All that summer Moore saw her. Eight months he’d now spent with her, walking and reading and singing lieder to her, sweat pouring down his face as she accompanied him on the piano. Moore supposed she liked him all right, yet he found it almost impossible to imagine that she would ever have him as a husband. This was not entirely Moore’s fault, however. Dorothy said she never expected to marry — she never wanted to depend on anybody. Still, she knew, as Moore did, that her education would soon be completed, at which point she planned to get a job. She said she liked the idea of earning her own living.
Moore didn’t know what to believe. Still less did Moore know what he wanted, let alone how to ask for her hand. For three months he had been thinking of asking, but still he slunk along, asking himself if he really loved her, and if he was good enough for her — more delaying tactics. Two months before, all set to ask, he had stalled. A week before, desperate, he had set out once more for her boarding house — stalled again. Yet now, at probably the worst time and at virtually the last possible minute, Moore had gone farther than he ever thought possible. Not only was he standing on the stoop of her boarding house, he was actually knocking on the door. Had he not been so terrified, he would have known from the landlady’s smile that she knew his purpose. Upstairs packing, Dorothy scoffed when Mrs. Boylan ran in saying that Mr. Moore had come to propose.
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��s merely come to say good-bye, said Dorothy nervously. I told him I don’t want to marry.
In ordinary circumstances, Moore might have spent two hours coming to the point. But when Dorothy entered the parlor, he stood, then went white, saying, I’ve come late, I know. But — I want you to marry me. Drawing himself up, he said, I’ve examined my feelings — I’ve examined them, I think, from every possible angle, and I can assure you of — that I do love you …
She looked frightened, suddenly standing there so naked. Before he could say another word, he felt her go quite automatic, as she said miserably, But I told you … I want to make my own way. Then, in response to his stricken look, she interjected, Not because I don’t care for you. I do care for you, it’s just —
He sat down abruptly. The chair was so low, and his knees so high — he looked like a boy. Nervously scrubbing his hands, he said loudly, Well, what are you saying?
Well, nothing about you, Mr. Moore.
He didn’t know why her use of “Mr.” suddenly annoyed him then. Please, he said sharply. Don’t you think we could at least dispense with this Mister and Miss business, seeing how I’ve asked you to be my wife?
We might, I suppose … She bit her lip. Only I don’t like the name George.
Gaping at her, he said, But that is my Christian name, you know.
I realize that, she said, looking around the corner to make sure they were entirely alone. But I don’t like it. I never fancied I’d know a George.
Harrumphed Moore with rising irritation, George or no, I have asked you to marry me! And my name is George.
Please do lower your voice, she said with a panicky look. I just don’t fancy George. You don’t even look like a George.
Well, he labored, call me G.E., then. Call me Moore, I don’t care — The question is, Will you have me or not?